


Audentes Fortuna Iuvat

by SavingShepard, Wystyria (SavingShepard)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Divergent Timelines, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Mutual Pining, NaNoWriMo, Slow Burn, kind of, stupid geniuses tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavingShepard/pseuds/SavingShepard, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavingShepard/pseuds/Wystyria
Summary: Fortune Favours the BraveJim discovers yet again why being 'The Chosen One' isn't everything it's chalked up to be.Oh, and, to make things worse?Somethingis up with Spock.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock, Pavel Chekov/Hikaru Sulu
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Audentes Fortuna Iuvat

**Author's Note:**

> My ideas for this fic were sparked by Emrys Ascending (awesome Merthur fic, go check it out!)... This was the story I decided I would write for NaNoWriMo.
> 
> Happy New Year!

Jim was sprinting. His hair was glued to his forehead with blood and sweat, his instincts singing with an intermingling of fear and fury. Something felt very very _very_ wrong. His left hand – his scar – was _burning_ , as though something was trying to cut its way up and out of the back of his hand with a welder.

He ran further into the vegetation, branches grabbing at his clothes and clawing at his face, the pain pushing him forward and out as he followed the one thing his primal instincts told him to do: _keep moving forward, don’t stop, keep going-_

And then he stumbled, falling face-first into a puddle of what could have been troll bile from the way it was sticking to him in all the wrong ways. He didn’t want to know. Shuddering with cold, adrenaline and a little disgust as he wiped the slime from his face, Jim took a moment to gulp in as much air as his lungs would take.

“Ah, the man of the hour has arrived.”

At the voice, his scar sent a bolt of such agony that he felt the world around him go slightly dark around the edges. Grimacing, Jim pulled out his wand and turned with so much speed that he pulled one of the recently closed cuts violently open. 

He couldn’t see anything. The mist between the trees was so thick it stuck to everything like a wet blanket, heavy and stifling. It was only then that he realised just how quiet the forest was – all he could hear was the rushing of his blood.

“Who’s there!?” His scar burned enough that he thought he knew the answer.

The mist rising out of the ground before him swirled faster and faster until it made his stomach lurch. He willed himself to stop watching- and when he looked back, the darkroom of before had turned into the Chamber of Secrets.

“Don’t you recognise my voice, boy? I was the one who _chose_ you, o ‘Chosen One’.” His voice was smooth as silk, oozing with contempt.

The cold seeped into him as the mist separated, slinking out towards the trees surround the clearing, revealing a dark figure.

Jim tensed as the speaker glided closer to him, its skeletal figure dwarfed by tattered smaragdine robes that shone with a silver filigree of cobwebs and dust. The figure’s otherworldly face stood out in stark contrast, dwarfed by the swathes of fabric encasing it and the rest of its body. Odd, shifting shadows dark as pitch hid his features from view, and Jim’s instincts thrummed. This was _bad_ , very bad.

His skin was so pale it was translucent – his jawbones pulling it so taught it looked like he should creak as he spoke. As the figure glided towards him, his hackles rising and horror sinking in as he realised the dark shadows on this entity's face were gaping holes where a nose and part of his jaw had once been. His presence rooted Jim in place, even though every instinct in his body told him to run, to sprint as fast as he could out of this place, way from the evil that permeated this entire space.

“Well, the last time I heard a voice like yours, it was out of the back of some other guy’s head. All scratchy like radio interference, y’know? Do forgive me for not recognising it right away.” Jim had mastered, much in the way of many teenagers, the art of sarcasm. 

“So brave in the face of death.” The entity chuckled, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Just like your father.”

Jim bared his teeth, readying himself to speak as another sound interrupted the absolute silence of the forest. Someone was tearing through the undergrowth and aiming straight for them. He saw the figure still out of the corner of his eye, and readied himself, urging his legs to move once they were distracted.

Then he saw them, a flash of black and white in the dark shadows of the underbrush. Flashes of blue and red lit up the dark foliage around them, bathing everything in surreal lighting so inconsistent with the dark monochrome of the forest that Jim had to blink.

A centaur galloped into the clearing, heading straight for him, an arm stuck out as though he planned to pick Jim up and keep going.

“Watch ou-” he shouted, gesticulating towards the robed figure and watched as shapes stretched and separated out of the mist in sickening squelches, slowly but surely forming as small group of humanoid shadows. “No!” He fought against sudden magical forces holding him place as he tried to stretch an arm out, barely managing to twitch a finger as weights pressed arms to his body, his feet solidly into the earth.

As one, the shadows shifted and the unmistakable glow of wands pointed towards the centaur, now seconds away from him. In one flash of sickly green, the Centaur gracelessly shuddered to a halt and collapsed to the ground, eyes wide open. Jim gulped, finding that he couldn’t look away. His eyes were the colour of the turbulent sea – grey and glassy.

“Good riddance.“ The voice hissed, and from his gloating tone, Jim was willing to bet the monster was smiling, too. “We don’t like _half-breeds_.” The word was spat as though it were poison, the hiss in his voice even more prominent.

Jim struggled against the forces holding him in place. “You’re a murderer!”

“A murderer? Oh, no.” And the figure stalked towards him once more, with the confidence of a hunter with cornered prey, his slit-eyes unblinkingly fixed on Jim as he stepped nonchalantly over the frozen corpse of the Centaur. “I’m **much** more than that.”

Without looking away, he pointed back towards the huddled mass of shadows and beckoned behind him with one skeletal finger. Another shadow separated itself from the mist, which had started creeping back towards him, steadily greedily drinking up any signs of the ground or surrounding trees. “Get the boy.”

“Yes, Lord.” The second figure whispered, their sickly-sweet voice jarring with Jim’s internal bullshit radar, and he glared in their direction, half-wondering what on earth such a mousy voice could do to him – and then the magical bonds around him started tightening further, an uncomfortable pressure quickly turning painful.

“No!”

* * *

Jim gasped awake, sweat matting his forehead as he fought for air. He fought the tangled vines of cotton around his waist and legs and kicked himself free, standing up so quickly his vision shorted out, causing him to panic further as pain skittered through his veins. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, the air whistling through his teeth as he clenched his jaw shut, listening carefully for any signs of _Frank_.

James Tiberius Kirk was, quite frankly, tired of all this bullshit.

Now wide awake, his heart hammering, Jim swallowed for air, instinctively rubbing his aching hand, his fingers running over the scar tissue just above his thumb. This was the source of his pain: the aftermath of the vicious attack on his parents sixteen years ago.

Chest heaving as he calmed down and the pain ebbed away, he glanced out of the window. The periwinkle sky told him just how early it was. Groaning as he flopped back onto his pillow, he tried to remember his dream, and why he felt the overwhelming urge to warn someone, anyone that something was very deeply _wrong_ – and why his scar was pulsing with pain. He closed his eyes and counted to a hundred as he controlled his breathing, not realising when he fell asleep once more.

A sharp tapping on his bedroom window shocked him out of his second fitful sleep, and he lurched off the bed to clumsily open the window latch. A brown and grey speckled snowy-owl perched on his window ledge, impatiently clicking at him as she moved her beak towards him.

“What have you got there?” He whispered, pausing to listen for any signs of human movement. She glared him as if to tell him she wasn’t there to answer stupid questions.

Grinning at her attitude, he finally relieved her of her burden and gently removing the envelopes from her bobbing beak. “Missed ya, Tasha.” At this she allowed him to pat her head, and he politely did so, muttering compliments to her as she preened before passing her water and food bowls over to her.

Smiling for the first time in days, and forgetting his odd dreams for the moment, Jim sat down on the edge of his bet and ripped open the first of three envelopes.


End file.
